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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29077137">we take what we're given</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/macabrekawaii/pseuds/macabrekawaii'>macabrekawaii</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Batman (Comics), Red Hood and the Outlaws (Comics)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Chronic Illness, Chronic Pain, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, I mean JASON let people take care of you, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, It's just Jason implying and referring to his own death, Oh my god Mx let people take care of you, but at least they are trying, this story is definitely about jason, two boys who are bad at feelings, you know like he has to do every five minutes, you may read this as pre-slash if you like</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 10:20:22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,110</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29077137</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/macabrekawaii/pseuds/macabrekawaii</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Jason wears pain like a threadbare tee shirt: once beloved and comfortable, but now worn thin and familiar. Most days he barely realizes it’s there. Pain is a low thrum, a backbeat to everything he does, the throb of blood in his veins. Some days it’s easier to ignore than others.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Tim Drake &amp; Jason Todd</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>110</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>we take what we're given</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I have severe lupus and fibromyalgia among other chronic pain issues. This is me trying to work through some shit on a really high pain day. I've been intrigued by the idea of like-- the Lazarus pit heals and revitalizes you, sure, but at what fucking cost? There's so much surrounding the mental toll, but what of the physical?  While I love the aesthetics of a Jason covered in hellish scars from his death, what about one with nothing but smooth skin where old scars should be. Don't worry, he's gotten plenty in his second go-around if that's what yr into. </p><p>Title is from "My Body Is A Cage" by Arcade Fire because it's a whole goddamn mood when yr having a flare.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><br/>
<br/>
Jason wears pain like a threadbare tee shirt: once beloved and comfortable, but now worn thin and familiar. Most days he barely realizes it’s there. Pain is a low thrum, a backbeat to everything he does, the throb of blood in his veins. Some days it’s easier to ignore than others. Pain radiates up his spine, down his arms, caresses his throat in a slow pulse like a lover. Once, on a mission, it wasn’t until Dick pointed out a knife dug three quarters into Jason’s hand that he even registered it was there. Dick had stared at him, wide-eyed and horrified as Jason merely removed the weapon and stood stock-still as blood dripped down through his torn leather glove.<br/>
<br/>
The pit washes away so much – too much—but there are some things the body will always remember. Knit the wounds closed, wipe the scars away, smooth the deep tissues, sure.  But like an amputee clenching a phantom limb, the body remembers its past. Scars well-earned are not so easily purged. The story behind them is there, etched forever in invisible ink and Jason’s first life, however brief, was a pithy tale. Exposed thighs are just asking for a bullet graze or two, near-misses with knives slash their story into teenage skin. In his second, he finds himself tracing calloused fingers over spaces he knows should have marks, over bullet wounds and lacerations so deep he could barely stitch them and yet nothing is there. Nothing but smooth skin and the chill sensation of a ghost laying itself atop his body like a shroud.<br/>
<br/>
Sometimes Jason wonders if he seeks out new scars just to prove he is really alive.<br/>
<br/>
Jason can take a blow to the head that would knock another man to his knees. Jason can break six bones in his hand and keep punching. Jason can run and run and run and run until his lungs feel like they are nothing but molten fire. There is no force on this earth that can stop him. He is a phoenix leaving only ash in his wake, and no regrets. Some days, he is invincible.<br/>
<br/>
Some days the veil of pain is a pile of rocks that weighs him down into his bed and just sitting up is a labor of Herculean strength. Like a hangover from <em>existing</em> too much, a punishment for squeezing blood from the stone of his grave. Jason’s blood feels thick with cold. A chill of death, he thinks, as he wraps himself up in more blankets than he ever had as a child.<br/>
<br/>
It’s one of those fucking days. Jason wakes with a start, like someone smacked him upside the head with something long and made of metal and he jolts upright, the hollow ring of laugher humming in his ears.</p><p><br/>
Meditation is pointless. Pulling himself inward only means being even more acutely aware of the ways in which his shambling corpse of a body is fucked the hell up. Sure, he uses breathing techniques to take his mind off a stab wound or slow the burning spread of a toxin through his veins but it’s hard to zone and focus when the thing that hurts is goddamn all of you.<br/>
<br/>
Medication then. Jason doesn’t really feel like being bombed out on painkillers all day, but he doesn’t have any active cases or missions, and no real excuse not to. Well, other than how shit it is to just essentially lose a day. Or several days. There was a time Jason relished the oblivion of a handful of oxy and probably too much alcohol to wash it down but now, for better or worse, he knew that was just a crutch. But crutches have their use and you can’t limp along without assistance forever. He fishes around in his nightstand, finds the mostly-full bottle, pops a reasonable few, chases it with the cold remnants of last night’s herbal tea. Ooh, fancy. Today: canceled.<br/>
<br/>
Jason settles back into the warmth of his bed, tries his best to ignore the way his limbs feel like Dick’s jabbing them with one of his fucking sparkler sticks. Tries to ignore the way he still feels cold, like his hands and feet are outside the blanket instead of curled as tightly against himself as possible. After a while, he lets himself drift back to sleep.<br/>
<br/>
It’s hours later and Jason’s phone starts vibrating in a three-beat staccato that means one of the Bats. He groans, rolling up on his side. What time is it? Ugh. Three already? Fuck. He should at least see which one it is. Maybe there’s something to punch.</p><p><br/>
Relief washes over Jason when he sees the screen light up with a picture of Red Robin stuck upside down in a manhole, his fancy fucking wings jammed on either side of him. Sure, Jason helped him out of the predicament, but not without a photo for posterity.</p><p> </p><p>Tim he could deal with today. Tim didn’t ask too many questions, didn’t insist on getting a straight answer anyway, and knew when to mind his damn business.</p><p><br/>
“Hey Timbo, what’s up?” Jason’s voice feels crunchy in his mouth, crackling against his teeth as he speaks. “Everything okay?”</p><p><br/>
“I wake you?” Tim’s voice is quiet, like somehow if he whispered now he’d be less of a disturbance.<br/>
<br/>
“Yeah it’s whatever, don’t worry about it. What’s up?”</p><p><br/>
“Saw that you haven’t been out on patrol a few days, but still in Gotham, wanted to make sure everything was alright.” Tim sounds tired himself, his voice thin.</p><p><br/>
“Missing me out there, you little stalker minx?”<br/>
<br/>
Jason hears Tim snort across the line.</p><p><br/>
“Sorry I wanted to make sure you hadn’t nearly bled out in your bathroom.” Tim laughs, but it’s flat, and obviously forced. “Again.”</p><p><br/>
“Just taking a few days for myself. Think of it as a staycation.”  <br/>
<br/>
“Alright.” There’s a pause, longer than feels natural. Like Tim’s mulling over what to say.<br/>
<br/>
“Spit it out. Is this you calling for yourself or calling for <em>someone else</em>.”<br/>
<br/>
“No, no it’s me.” Tim responds without hesitation and Jason feels a knot of tension unwind. Usually, Dick’s the one sniffing around if Jason’s been MIA without a good reason, but he knows that Jason will usually ignore him. It wouldn’t be the first time Big Bird sent a fledgling after him. “I just worry, you know? It can’t be easy.”<br/>
<br/>
Jason sighs. He absolutely does not want to have this conversation with anyone, ever. But there’s still a weird edge of resentment sometimes when <em>Tim</em> brings it up. When Tim <em>cares</em>. Tim, who probably shouldn’t give a rat’s ass about Jason’s entire existence let alone be ringing him up to make sure he was feeling okay. Jason’s done a lot of things he isn’t entirely proud of. More than a handful concern just Tim. Tim, who is a better Robin than Jason could have ever hope to have been. Tim who is a better…..<br/>
<br/>
“I know I used to call you Pretender, but you don’t gotta live up to the name so well. Drop the act.” Jason’s glad this is just a phone call and not visual. It’s easier to detach, to pretend Jason doesn’t know the exact way Tim’s eyes crease at the corner when he reminds him of their bad blood.<br/>
<br/>
“For fuck’s sake Jason can’t you let someone care about you for five minutes? I was serious, geez. You haven’t been on the streets for a few days, and your tracker has you only in your apartment, can you blame me for wanting to check in? On the phone? Like a normal fucking person?” Tim sounds agitated now, but Jason knows he hasn’t really struck a nerve. Not yet anyway.</p><p> </p><p>Tim Drake may be a hair’s breadth away from a terrifying genius, but his anger management needs work. Maybe that’s why they’ve started getting along better these days. Birds of a feather, and all that.<br/>
<br/>
“I just don’t want anybody’s pity, you feel me? I don’t want anybody looking at me differently because sometimes I can’t do something I usually can.” Jason feels his face heat up, feels like he’s going to pass out or puke or something equally embarrassing. This is why he doesn’t like talking about this. The earnestness, the transparency. Jason knows what he’s <em>good for</em>. Jason knows what his body was brought back for. He’s a bruiser, a tank. He’s a weapon. Jason knows he was brought back to life for a fucking reason and that reason wasn’t to be laying in goddamn bed wishing his blanket were made of dirt after all. He makes a mental note to figure out where his current tracker is on himself and disable it. Alfred probably slipped one in on him the last time he had to get patched up at the Mansion. It’d be sweet if it didn’t feel less like concern and more like <em>keeping tabs</em>.<br/>
<br/>
“You’re not weak, Jason.” Tim’s voice is soft but lacks the patronizing edge Jason is so used to when the topic so blatantly turns to his…. limitations.<br/>
<br/>
Jason thinks about the way Tim moves when he fights, the way he seems to fly as effortlessly as Dick without being born into it. Jason thinks about the way Tim can dodge punches as expertly as Bruce, always keeps ten steps ahead of his opponent. Jason thinks about how few scars Tim has for someone who has been out there with some kind of an R on his chest for as long as he has been. Tim has a proficiency in all that he does that Jason cannot ever hope for. A synergy of things both learned and known. Things Jason feels like he never knew, in any lifetime.<br/>
<br/>
“I never said I was!” Jason shouts back, way louder than he meant to. His voice pounds against his temples like a drumbeat. He takes a moment to breathe slowly through his nose before continuing. “I never said I was weak.”<br/>
<br/>
Jason knows he isn’t weak, but he can’t help but feel like it when he’s benched like this. It makes him feel like the times he was a skinned-knee teenager pacing the Bat Cave until sunrise, itching to be out on rooftops. If he wasn’t good enough then, what does that make him now? He feels like a shard of something that should be whole, something shattered and spiraling, a fractal of a fractal.<br/>
<br/>
There’s silence on the other end of the line aside from the soft clacking of a keyboard. Jason just waits it out, knows Tim will say whatever it is he has left to say eventually. He’s already pushed him enough as it is. God dammit, Jason, why are you like this? Someone calls you to make sure you’re okay and you bite their head off? Whatever. It is what it is. Tim of all people knew what he was signing up for with a check-in.<br/>
<br/>
“Well, good talk, Jason.” Tim laughs, a soft breathy sound, and Jason feels like his chest is constricting around his lungs.  “Check outside your safehouse in about 45 minutes, I’m sending you some takeout. If it’s not there in an hour just text me, okay?” Tim doesn’t sound mad, just tired. And Jason supposes he probably is—being out of the game for a few days means Jason has no goddamn clue exactly what’s going on in Gotham at the moment. Sure, he’s checking his feeds, the police scanners and stuff, but it isn’t the same.<br/>
<br/>
“I will.”<br/>
<br/>
Neither one says anything.<br/>
<br/>
“Hey, Timberly?”<br/>
<br/>
“Yeah, what.”<br/>
<br/>
“Thank you.”<br/>
<br/>
“If you’re still feeling like shit tomorrow would you like me to come over? I can bring my laptop and we can hook it up to your ancient TV. It’d be fun to see if I can get everything to connect through the <em>tubes</em>.”<br/>
<br/>
“Hey, you leave my vintage TV out of this! Why should I spend money on a flatscreen when this one’s fine.” And it’s true—Jason loves his giant rear projection television he got at the weird consignment shop at the edge of the Narrows. “Yeah. Yeah, come over. After four though in case I gotta—” Jason breathes in, feels like the air bounces in his lungs like a solid object. “In case I gotta sleep in.”<br/>
<br/>
“I’ll call off patrol.” Tim says breezily, as if it’s nothing.<br/>
<br/>
“You don’t…”<br/>
<br/>
“I don’t <em>have to </em>do anything Jason Todd.”<br/>
<br/>
“That’s true. That’s true Timmers. I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?”<br/>
<br/>
“Yeah, you will.”<br/>
<br/>
There’s a click and the call drops.<br/>
<br/>
Jason pulls the blankets around himself and feels warm for the first time in days.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>So the stabbing three quarters through his hand thing wasn’t random—I really did that to myself back in April. I have a pretty gnarly scar from it and required a lot of stitches and a lengthy recovery. Am I a vigilante? Or am I just an insane person interacts with knives too often? Who can say man. Who can say.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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